


Vodka and Sweet Tea

by ellipsisthegreat



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-12
Updated: 2010-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-13 15:42:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipsisthegreat/pseuds/ellipsisthegreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt on the st_xi_kink_meme: 'He poured all of the vodka into the sweet tea and said that tomorrow it would be called 'surprise drunk.' then we had sex.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vodka and Sweet Tea

_**Disclaimer:** Star Trek belongs to J.J. Abrams, Gene Roddenberry, and all those other cool cats who own it. All I own is the plot!_

Common sense tells Leonard that this is probably a bad idea, but he's about three shots past listening to common sense. Actually, on a scale from one to shit-faced, he's pretty sure he's just _barely_ shy of the latter.

And anyhow, Chekov (who is, coincidentally, about three shots behind him) doesn't seem to mind at all; actually, he thinks maybe this is why Chekov helped him to his rooms.

It's possible that Chekov's even the one who kissed him first, but he's pretty sure he was the instigator. But it doesn't much matter in light of the fact that one way or the other they've started kissing, and neither of them is in any way inclined to stop at the moment.

Except for the fact that Leonard had grabbed a pitcher of sweet tea on his way out of the party—he doesn't know how or why it was there, but he doesn't much give a shit at this point—and Chekov's free hand is grasping the neck of a bottle of vodka.

And for some reason Leonard isn't quite sure of (it's probably got something to do with how piss-ass drunk he is), making sure these two drinks survive the night is of vital importance.

"Fridge." He mumbles into Chekov's mouth, and blinks blearily when Chekov pulls away.

"Vhat?" Chekov asks with that _fucking adorable_ accent of his, forehead scrunching in a way that makes Leonard want to kiss him again until the lines are gone.

"Drinks in the fridge." He says.

"…Oh." Chekov says, still obviously confused, but he plucks the pitcher out of Leonard' fingers and goes to the refrigerator, stumbling just a little. "Ah, Doktor, zhere ees not enough room for both."

"Well, shit." Leonard says, bemoaning (not for the first time) the fact that Starfleet-issued refrigerators are so damned small. Sure, people can just replicate stuff whenever they like, so there isn't much point in saving leftovers, but there are some things a man just can't throw out under any circumstances. _Real_ sweet tea and vodka are two of those things. And he doesn't think he's sober enough to decide what _should_ be thrown out in their stead.

"Ah, I hawe an idea." Chekov says, setting the pitcher on the table and pouring the vodka into it. "Sawes room _and_ will be surprise drink for zhe morning."

Leonard is pretty sure he's in love.

So when Chekov turns around—he's got this huge grin on his face, like he's just figured out the answer to some obscure mathematical equation that was previously considered unsolvable—Leonard grabs his cheeks and pulls him forward and kisses him again. The kid's got a little peach fuzz that's trying valiantly to war with Leonard' five o'clock shadow, and the sensation makes Leonard' lips curl into a tiny little grin that he'll never admit to having. Chekov's hands flutter about for a moment, like he's not sure what to do with them, and he puts them on Leonard' hips. But then he thinks better of it, and they slip up under Leonard' shirt and start flitting around from stomach to back to chest.

With a snort, Leonard reaches down and strips his shirt off.

"Put your arms around my neck." He says as he tosses the shirt in a random direction. He grasps Chekov's ass in his hands—Chekov squeaks and then moans and arches into him—and pushes up until Chekov gets the idea and wraps his legs around Leonard' waist.

Leonard tilts his head into the renewed kiss, more so that he can do a quick scan of the place to try and remember where his bedroom is than anything else. When he sees it he takes a few steps forward, but then the alcohol kicks his legs out from under him and they fall to the floor with a yelp and a grunt. They lie there for a long moment—Chekov staring up at Leonard and Leonard trying to figure out what in the hell just happened—and then someone (Chekov. it's totally Chekov) giggles and sets them both off and they start laughing. It's part hysteria, part embarrassment, part drunkenness, and part pure amusement, and they've only just gotten a hold of themselves when their eyes meet and they start up again.

"Ain't you s'posed to be leadin' me around, kid?" He asks through his laughter.

"Zhe drunk leading zhe drunk ees no good, I think." Chekov giggles, his nose scrunched and his smile so wide Leonard figures it's only a matter of time before his cheeks fall off. "Maybe we should crawl?"

 _That_ makes Leonard laugh again (the thought of two grown…well, _mostly_ grown men crawling around like toddlers who don't quite have a grasp on walking, yet), but Chekov is apparently perfectly serious, because a moment later he has somehow maneuvered out from under Leonard and grabs his hand, half-stumbling and half-crawling toward the bedroom.

Somehow, amidst stolen kisses and snorting laughter, they make it. Chekov peels his shirt off, followed closely by his pants, and then pulls himself up onto the bed. Leonard stands up; tries to get his pants off but can't keep his balance well enough; decides to hell with it and leaves the pants (and boxers) clinging to one ankle. He briefly considers trying to be sexy and crawl up the bed, but remembers (with surprising clarity considering how drunk he is) his unfortunate fall earlier and figures that if he can't even _walk_ , being terrifically sexy is probably not going to happen.

So he doesn't try anything fancy, just gets onto the bed and straddles the once-again-giggling Ensign, who sits up long enough to kiss him and pull him down when gravity decides that sitting up is a bad idea.

"You look reh-dee-coo-lous with your pants like zhat." Chekov says breathily.

"You sound ridiculous when you talk." Leonard replies, and kisses him again before he can protest. "So I reckon we're even, kid."

"Am not kid." Chekov says with a scowl as he dodges the next kiss. "You will call me Pavel, da?"

"Pavel, then." Leonard says, deciding that if he's going to fuck the k—Pavel, it will probably be better if he _doesn't_ think of him as a child.

And, for all intents and purposes, Pavel _isn't_ a kid, anymore. He's done and seen things that most adults couldn't handle, and come out of it no worse for the wear (for the most part, anyhow).

"You ever done this before, _Pavel_?" Leonard asks, thrusting experimentally.

Pavel hums and pushes up against him. "Like zhis, with another man, I am less wirgin zhan you, Doktor."

"If I'm callin' you Pavel, you've gotta at least call me Leonard." Leonard says.

"Mm, zhis ees good Russian name, Leonard." Pavel says.

Leonard can't help but snort. "Is it?"

"Yes. In Russia, ees Lyonya." He nods. "Lyonechka."

"Lyonechka?" Leonard arches an eyebrow at him.

"Yes. Ees a term of endearment, like Pasha for me." Pavel kisses him again. "My Lyonechka."

The eyebrow goes higher. "My Pasha, then?"

Pavel groans, his head falling back. "Yes, yes, _your_ Pasha. You will say zhis again, Doktor?"

And higher—it's going to be touching his hairline soon. This time, it's accompanied by a smirk as he puts his lips next to Pavel's ear. " _My_ Pasha."

Pavel whimpers.

"You like the idea of belongin' to me, darlin'?" And he tilts his head, latching his lips onto Pavel's clavicle and sucking until there is a light mark. "My little Pasha."

There's something terrifically heady about the sounds Pavel is making; the way he writhes as Leonard kisses a trail down his body.

"Dok—Lyonya, I will not last…" A stuttering gasp as Leonard takes Pavel's dick into his mouth. "Oh, Lyonya. Lyonechka, oh, oh, oh."

He reaches up and taps Pavel's chest, waving his fingers until Pavel gets the idea and wraps his lips around them, groaning and sucking and trying to mirror what Leonard is doing with his cock. Leonard pulls away fairly soon, presses the spit-slicked fingers into Pavel's anus—one finger, two, three, too fast to be comfortable, but Leonard is too drunk to be any more thoughtful than to remember prep at all and Pavel is too drunk to care either way. And when Pavel tugs on his hair, he releases him with a light pop and allows himself to be tugged up into a kiss, lining up and pressing in before either of them can think better of it. Pavel screams into his mouth, part pleasure but mostly pain, and Leonard (somehow) has the presence of mind to stop and wait, and wait, and wait.

"Say it again, say it again." Pavel murmurs, shifting until Leonard starts to move again.

"My Pasha, mine, mine, mine." He chants until their mouths meet again, as rough and bruising as the union of their lower halves until Pavel jerks away and yells and comes. Leonard follows a few heartbeats later, having just enough will and energy to pull out and roll off to the side before they both fall asleep.

(WAITAMINUTE,PAGEBREAK.HOWOLDAREYOU?)

Leonard wakes with a jolt the next morning, a hangover induced headache already pulling at the back of his mind as he glances over, sees his bed partner, and lets out a litany of curses that makes said partner laugh.

"You remember what happened last night, Doktor?" Pavel (no, wait _The Kid_ , because he's _sewenteen_ , for Christ's sake) asks, regarding Leonard with a curious expression that just makes him look younger than he already does.

"I always remember what I do when I'm drunk." Leonard grumps, standing and searching for his clothes. Then he adds, "More's the pity."

"I do not zhink it ees a pity." The Kid (or, no, he's eighteen now, right? So Chekov. Yeah, Chekov is safe…r. Isn't it?) says, eyes sparkling with something that Leonard thinks might be adoration or hero worship or any other number of things that should _not_ be in anyone's eyes when they're looking at Leonard. Jim, maybe. Hell, even Spock, or Sulu, or Uhura. But not Leonard, and _definitely_ not after…what happened.

"Look, kid…" Leonard trails off, because Chekov's eyes have narrowed and that adoring expression has hardened into something akin to the expression Leonard is used to seeing when Chekov has come across a particularly difficult problem that needs to be solved as quickly as possible. "What?"

And just like that, the Kid…Pavel… _Chekov_ has thrown a leg over him and is straddling his hips, grinning like a cat that has just found an unguarded bowl of cream when Leonard gulps and begins to harden. Chekov leans forward until their noses (and dicks) are touching. "I zhink you should not be able to zhink zhis much when you are hung ower, Doktor. _Lyonechka_."

Leonard's breath hitches and even with the hangover and that cautionary voice in the back of his head listing off all of the reasons this is a bad idea (it sounds like Jocelyn), he tilts his head up and kisses Chekov square on the mouth.

Chekov hums, and when they pull away the sparkle has come back into his eyes. "So you are aggressiwe when drunk, but submissiwe when sober. Een-ter-es-tink."

"Fuck, you sound so stupid." Leonard says, maybe because he thinks pissing Chekov off will get them both out of this mess, or maybe because he can't think of anything else to say, or maybe because the hangover is impeding his (mostly ineffective, true) brain-to-mouth filter. Whatever the reason, Chekov just sneers and starts speaking in Russian. Leonard can't understand so much as a syllable besides the soft 'Lyonechka' that punctuates the end of the sentence, but _shit_ Chekov sounds older when he speaks Russian.

Which is (apparently) just what Leonard needed, because he kisses Chekov again. And maybe things would have progressed further than that—no, Leonard's pretty damn sure they would have—but his hangover chooses that exact moment to kick itself up a notch, and he bucks Chekov off of himself and bolts, just fast enough to get to the toilet in time to not vomit all over the floor.

"My poor Lyonechka." Chekov says as he enters the room, rubbing Leonard's back soothingly. "Ees a good thing Russians do not get hangowers."

Leonard throws up again.

(WAITAMINUTE,PAGEBREAK.HOWOLDAREYOU?)

Chekov fetches the hypo Leonard asks for (after eliciting a promise from Leonard that he will call him Pavel from now on), as well as a glass of water (which was just a bonus he threw in to apologize for making Leonard deal with the hangover for as long as it took to elicit said promise), so within a few moments it is as if he never got drunk and slept with an eighteen year old Russian wunderkind (except that, as Jim would say: _he_ _totally_ _did_ ).

"Feel better?" Pavel asks blithely.

Leonard grunts and opens his refrigerator, pulling out the jug of sweet tea and sniffing it. He wrinkles his nose. "Holy _shit_ , how much vodka was there?"

The corner of Pavel's mouth twitches. "Ah, it _ees_ a pity you remembered. It was supposed to be a surprise drink."

Leonard looks down at the vodka-tea, then up at Pavel, arching an eyebrow and putting the pitcher back into the fridge. "I'm old. Maybe I'll have forgotten by tomorrow."

Pavel is pretty sure he's in lowe.

The End


End file.
